A Man of His Word
by emjay79
Summary: Troy Callan is a retired gunslinger who hires out one last time when offered an unusual amount of money to kill Marshal Matt Dillon. When Kitty saves his life he promises her any favor. Will he go back on his word?
1. Chapter 1

A Man Of His Word

a/n: This was inspired by the episode, The Favor. I don't own Gunsmoke. Wish I did:)

Chapter 1

Fog rolled around the boardwalk making walking precarious and clapboard signs difficult to read. Not that the town of Palatch was big enough to get lost in, but Callan knew that the dangers of meeting in a hole-in-the-wall saloon in a town he'd never been in on an obscure 'business' trip could be lurking around any building, any corner or door. He didn't like having his vision obstructed as well. Raucous laughter spilled into the street ahead of him as a cowboy tumbled wildly through the swinging doors. Obviously drunk, the man sprawled face down in the muddy street, boots still blocking the pathway of the boardwalk. Callan stepped over him and paused, scanning over the batwing doors before entering. This must be the place, he thought to himself.

Rough-hewn boards nailed horizontally over spaced whiskey barrels served as a bar, while several tables of the same fashion crowded the room, where a few bedraggled barmaids twisted through with trays balanced in the air, slopping beer on the customers seated below. No one seemed to mind, and it occurred to Callan that the patrons of this particular hole had probably crawled out from one. He made his way over to the bar and dropped a dime onto a cigarette burn on the surface of the plank.

"Whiskey."

The short portly little man peered up at him with blood shot eyes, the dim light reflecting off his baldhead into the dirty cracked mirror behind him. Callan was grateful for the mirror. . All bars should have mirrors behind them, a good way to watch your back.

"Ain't never seen you afore, where you from, cowboy?" the little man asked as he pushed a filled shot glass in front of him.

"South of here", was the only reply as the liquid disappeared in a gulp.

"You Troy Callan?" a man asked from the corner of the bar. Callan nodded. "Well, Mr. Callan, I'd like to buy you a drink." He nodded at the bartender who quickly refilled the now empty shot glass.

Callan moved to the stranger, assessing him as he neared. Yes, this would be Aiken. He looked uncomfortable in the saloon's filthy and not a little seedy atmosphere. Such men always did. He wore a linen suit with a burgundy satin vest; he looked more like a banker than the trail hands who'd normally do their drinking here.

Troy took the drink, might as well get something for his trouble finding the place. Mr. Aiken was about to be disappointed, he didn't hire out anymore. Just didn't have the stomach for killing—be they good or bad. But the man had promised an unusual amount of money, and out of curiosity he'd taken a side route. Tomorrow he'd be back on his way home again.

"Mr. Callan, I'm not accustomed to this type of business and don't know where to begin. So I'll be blunt. Your reputation though not widely known is that you are the best, and I need the best."

"Depends on what you mean by best." Troy drank more slowly, allowing the older man to continue.

"What I mean is, I've heard you are the fastest gun ever seen. You've also a reputation for honoring your end of the contract, and then disappearing. You're not on any wanted posters."

"I don't stick around long enough for that. But, I don't hire out no more, I reckon you've heard _that _too."

"That's why I'm prepared to offer you three thousand dollars."

Troy whistled under his breath. "Three thousand? You must want somebody dead pretty bad."

"I do. And you're who I need. This man's fast. Deadly fast."

"Who?"

"Matt Dillon."

"Matt Dillon. I heard of him. Big man. He's a Marshal somewhere, Kansas, ain't it?"

"Dodge City. You've never seen him?"

"Nope. Only passed through Kansas once. Never met any Marshals. I hear he's a damned good lawman. What you want to see him dead for?"

"You ask a lot of questions for a hired killer."

"I don't generally kill United States Marshals either. 'Sides, you ain't hired me yet."

"Let's just say a man with the know how could make a lot of money around Dodge. With the right man behind the badge that is."

"What you mean is, Dillon don't sell out. That's pretty admirable, you ask me."

"I hear you get paid in advance. A thousand now. The rest when the job's done."

"Pretty fair. Except I'm not taking the job. I told you I don't hire out no more."

Aiken smiled. "You think about it. Three thousand, that's a lot of money. You let me know."

"Hire somebody else."

"There ain't nobody else. I've seen Dillon shoot. You're the only one who can outdraw him. Like I said, your reputation precedes you. You let me know. Then take all the time you want. I know you work slow, take your time, find the right moment. Come back by Mr. Callan, and I'll make the down payment." Aiken laid a dollar on the bar and walked out.

Troy grinned despite himself. He's a confidant son-of-a-bitch, I'll give him that. And he'd never been offered three thousand for a job. "Troy Callan, you don't have a brain in your head", he muttered to himself as he mounted his horse and headed out of town. He could have done a lot with three thousand dollars.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The sun rose slowly, illuminating the prairie in soft pinks and yellows, and Callan quickened his pace. He wanted to be there before things got busy. He could see the house in the distance, the white walls blending into the haze of the early morning light. God, it had been a long time, he thought. Twelve years was a long time. He hoped he wasn't too late.

He was surprised at the stab of loneliness that went through him at the sight of his home. He hadn't missed it for a long time. But now—now that he was coming home again, the memories flooded through his heart, and he was startled to find his eyes misting over. The chickens scattered as he rode silently up the lane, disappearing into the wheat fields on either side. The scent of roses wafted to him on the breeze, and the delicate morning glories greeted him from tangled vines upon an old split rail fence. Some things never change. And others changed a lot.

She was sweeping the porch, her long chestnut tresses tied loosely behind her, a bandana around her hair. She was older, but still a striking woman, rawboned yet beautiful. She propped the broom against the wall and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. She heard his approach and shaded her eyes against the sun with her hand. She hadn't really believed he'd come, but she should have known, he'd told her he would. Their eyes met, and the look exchanged froze them both in their tracks. She spoke first. "Hello, Troy."

"Amelia."

"You're here just in time; I don't expect she'll be here much longer." It was only now that he swung off his horse. He had wanted to hear those words; otherwise he'd have ridden on. "Tom!" She called behind her through an open window, "come here please!"

"You look good, Amelia."

"You're a terrible liar, Troy."

He had meant it, but she did look tired, and he could tell the years had been spent in hard work. The door opened and a boy of about 10 emerged. He had dark brown hair-almost black, and a smattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose.

"Tom, this is your uncle, Troy."

"Pleased to meet you, sir."

Troy was moved at the sight of him. This could have easily been his boy. "Good to meet you, too, son."

"Thomas, go water your uncle's horse and fetch it some grain. Looks like he's been rode hard."

"Yes, ma." Thomas was reluctant to leave, but he obeyed his mother's command.

"He's a fine boy, Amelia. Looks like Jeff."

"He looks like you." She said bluntly. "Come in and have a cup of coffee before you go up to see your ma."

He followed her inside. The smell of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee hit him and he was startled by a faint rumble in his stomach. Amelia laughed softly as she filled a delicate china cup with the hot black liquid. His mother's china; a wedding gift. It was supposed to have been their wedding. He took the cup and sipped it, clearing his thoughts. He sat at the chair she pulled out for him, resting his hat on the blue and white checkered table cloth. She kept a neat house. The hard wood floors were swept and polished, and a mason jar filled with daisies sat in the window sill and in the center of the table. The last ten years vanished as the familiar sounds and smells and the sight of everything in its place stirred his memories. "Where's Jeff?"

"He went out to check the fence line around the south water hole. He should be back anytime. He's missed you, Troy. He tells Tom stories about you all the time. Your ma, she's missed you too. I'm glad you came back."

Had _she_ missed him? "I promised myself I'd see ma again. Tom, he looks like a fine boy, I'm glad I've come home, too." He paused. "Twelve years is a long time to be away."

"Yes." She avoided his gaze as she pulled the biscuits out of the oven with a towel and placed them on the table next to a freshly obtained pail of frothy white milk. She took an oak tray and placed a plate of food and a glass of milk and coffee on it. "Why don't you take your ma her breakfast? Jeff should be back directly, but she's been waiting to see you, Troy." He took the tray from her, and slowly climbed the stairs.

He knocked softly at the door, it opened slightly at his touch and he went on in. She didn't turn her face to see him right away. He studied her in that brief moment: his mother, her face aged and her hair white as snow. She was still a small woman, and her eyes looked the same, blue and clear, and the smile that lit them when her gaze met his brought true tears to his eyes.

"Troy? Troy, is that you, son?" She raised a bit, her arms outstretched, beckoning him to her. Setting the tray on the table next to her bed, he embraced her tightly, lifting her almost out of the bed. She motioned to him and he propped her into an almost sitting position with her pillows, and took her hand. "So, you've finally come to see your old ma before she dies." The words were spoken without reproach.

"Ma, you're not that bad off. You look like a spring chicken yet."

"Don't know why you bother lying. You never was good at it. But it does me good to see you." Her wrinkled skin was sallow and her breathing raspy in her chest. She had the look of a child about her, in an oversized cotton gown in the middle of that enormous feather bed. She looked old. She looked terrible. But at that moment, she was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen, his mother.

It was some time later when Troy finally emerged from the little bedroom. She had gotten too weak to talk anymore, and he had suggested she rest some before their next one. He assured her he'd be staying on for a few days, and that they'd have time. She hadn't questioned him about his livelihood. She knew of course, he knew that somehow she knew. He'd never been able to hide anything from her, ever. She hadn't asked him about the woman in his life, or the lack there of. She knew that too. There hadn't been anyone permanent. Not since the day he'd rode in after a two year absence and found his girl married to his brother. He'd rode back out that evening. There'd been girls, of course. In saloons. In boarding houses. But _not_ in his heart. He hadn't met her yet, the woman who could truly stand by her man, the woman who could wait and trust and love completely. He didn't even know if she existed, this woman. He was waiting for her, but in the meantime, he had fun with the others. But no ties. No ties, not ever again. He would stay a few days because he'd promised.

She died that afternoon. She'd always had a way of making things easier on him.

He and Jeff dug the grave together. He was glad to see his brother again. He'd never blamed Jeff; it was Amelia who had betrayed him. And it was in partial respect to Jeff that he'd rode out that night so long ago, he did not like scenes.

It wasn't until after the funeral that he learned of his brothers troubles. "What do you mean, we're losing the farm?" Troy was incredulous. Everything seemed so prosperous; the crops looked good, even for this early in the season.

"Big man in town. He's buying up all the land around here. Anyhow, we had some bad crops last few years. I'm in debt, Troy. It's shameful. I owe this man a lot of money, and the payments are late. This year's gonna be good, I know, but he won't wait that long. He's pressuring the bank to foreclose now. I could make a small payment now, but he wants it all."

"How long do you have?"

"A week. There's no way in heaven I could get that kind of money in that time. I always wanted Tom to have it- to pass it down the way pa wanted. I'm glad ma went now. She didn't know, it would have hurt her something awful."

"How much do you need, Jeff?"

"Twenty-five hundred. I ain't never even seen half that amount at one time before."

Troy swallowed slowly. His pa had slaved himself to an early grave to make this place work. He'd be damned if any strong-armed city man would have it. "I can wire the money to you tomorrow."

"Where the hell are you gonna get that kind of money?"

"I've got it."

"This is my problem, Troy, not yours. I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't ask me, I'm volunteering. Besides, you're my brother, your trouble's mine. And you got a wife and a boy to think of. You ain't losing the place; you'll have the money tomorrow. Maybe someday I'll be back and we'll work it together."

"Is that a promise?"

"If I don't get myself killed. 'Course, I ain't cut out for farming. Staying in one place very long don't agree with me. But if I live long enough, I'll need somewhere to spend my old age."

He rode out after dark. He hadn't much time to find Aiken, and buy a one way ticket to Dodge City, Kansas.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Kitty smiled a thank you to the waiter as he refilled her coffee for the third time. The little restaurant was busy now, and she was glad they'd risen early. She shook her head in amusement at the big cowboy sitting next to her, still gulping down his steak and eggs. Some things never changed. "Matt, if you don't hurry up we're going to miss our stage."

"That stage doesn't leave for another two hours, Kitty. Besides, I'm gonna miss this food when we're back eating at Delmonico's every day." He winked at her. "I have to eat to keep my strength up, I worked up quite an appetite this morning, you know."

"Oh, I know." She said, with a wink of her own.

He grinned at her. "You're not getting tired of me, are you?'

"Marshal Dillon, I don't get you to myself enough to ever get tired of you."

"Well good, because—"

"Marshal Dillon?" He was interrupted by a shy looking young man of about sixteen who glanced apologetically at Kitty. "Excuse me, ma'am. Marshal, I have a telegram for you." The boy handed a small envelope to him, and waited nervously for the reply.

Matt frowned as he read the contents and stuffed the telegram into his breast pocket. "Thanks, son. Tell them I'll be on my way directly." He handed the boy a dime for his trouble, and looked down at his coffee.

Kitty Russell sighed. Yep, some things _never_ changed. Well, at least they'd had a week—a week all to themselves. "What is it, Matt?"

"You know that gang I was trailing a few weeks back?"

She nodded, confused. "I thought Jack Heelin died, Matt."

"Well he did. But they caught two of the others, including Heelin's younger brother, Will. I have to go to Wichita to testify. By golly, Kitty, I'm sorry."

"Well, I almost won, Matt." She smiled. "At least you're running off at the end of a vacation, instead of before we even get started. Next time, I may even get you for the ride home."

"Kitty, listen," he said, taking her hand in his, "why don't you come to Wichita with me? The trial won't take more'n a couple of days, and you could visit with the Latham's while we're there."

As tempting as it was, she shook her head. "It sounds nice, Matt, but I'd better be getting back to Dodge. Sam's probably ready to lose his mind, me leaving him by himself this time of year. I'm sure he'll be in need of some time off himself by now."

He took one last bite, finishing off his breakfast. "We'd better get down to the depot so I can change my ticket." He stood and took her arm as they left the restaurant. "Topeka was nice while it lasted."

Her eyes twinkled as she smiled up at him, "It sure was, Cowboy."

Kitty waved from the window as the stage lurched forward, still tasting his goodbye on her lips. That trial had better not last too long, she thought, as she leaned back against the seat, trying to adjust to the hard jolts as the team quickened their pace.

The big man stretched his cramped legs as much as the distance between the seats would allow without disturbing the pretty passenger opposite him. She was a beauty; he'd give her that. Reddest hair and bluest eyes he'd ever seen—and a figure that caused him to forgive her for interrupting his napping when a wheel had hit a hole in the road and she had cried out in surprise. A fine looking woman. He smiled at her as he laid his hat next to him, glad that there were only two passengers this leg of the trip. This was going to be more pleasant than previously anticipated.

"Stage is a helluva way to travel, hard on a man's bones. You goin' far, ma'am?"

"Dodge City."

"Woman like you, goin' to Dodge alone? That's a mighty rough town, from what I hear."

"Well, I'm not exactly alone. I live there. And you're right, it is rougher than most. Not too many dull days."

Not exactly alone. Didn't say whether she was married or not. He bet not. This was going to be an interesting trip. While she took in the scenery outside the window, he took in the sights inside the coach. An admirable sight; the deep green of her dress, contrasting sharply with the milky white of her skin, red curls piled high under a matching hat with a white plume. She sat straight and tall, angled in such a way he could easily watch the line of her breast rise and fall as she breathed. She caught him staring at her and to his surprise she didn't blush. She just pretended she hadn't noticed and looked back out the window.

"Looks like a storm's blowing in," she said out loud, more to herself than to him.

He glanced out the window opposite him. Big, black clouds were gathering in thick heavy stacks low in the horizon. "Looks like a nasty one at that." He reached over and closed the burlap flap down over his window as if to emphasize his statement. Tiny whirlwinds of dust were sweeping over the prairie. Kitty fastened her shade down just as a clap of thunder rumbled ominously overhead. "It's a long way to Dodge; longer if the road gets drowned. Next stop can't be too many miles, I'm thinkin."

Rain fell in steady drops that quickened into sheets, beating against the roof like a constant volley of bullets. Kitty scooted to the center of the seat to avoid the stray drops blowing in from under the shades. She cast a wistful glance upward, hoping her luggage would stay dry. She was glad she had used the hard case instead of her large carpetbag.

With a practiced eye she studied the man across from her. He was a big man—almost as big as Matt, though she'd never seen him standing up. He had a rugged face: a large square jaw and firm chin framed by dark, wavy hair that curled a bit at the peak of his forehead. A handsome face, but weathered enough that it made it hard to guess his age. Mid-thirties, maybe. She was drawn to his eyes; a steely bluish grey, the color of slate in the rain. They seemed hard but wistful, eyes that you could read in unguarded moments. He was dressed simply and neatly; plain breeches, pressed blue cotton shirt, black vest, black hat. Probably a rancher, Kitty thought, except for the ivory handled six-gun on his hip. Too fancy for a cowboy's gun, but his clothes weren't those of a gambler or a gunslinger. He was too clean for a drifter; he talked too much for somebody running away from trouble.

She lurched forward suddenly, barely keeping her seat as the wheels slid in the slippery muck that was the road. The stranger bent and retrieved her handbag from the floor, noting the shape of a derringer through the cloth. This woman had more surprises, and he was glad to note the absence of a ring when she took her bag from him.

"Better hang on to the seat ma'am, the road's turned to soup sure enough."

The horses had slowed to a crawling pace and they strained to pull the rig through the mud, their footing more and more precarious. Kitty heard the shout of the driver above the roar of the rain announcing that the Sand Flats relay station was directly up ahead and that they'd be boarding there until the weather let up. That meant an extra day at least, probably two, before they'd reach Dodge. Kitty wished now that she'd gone on to Wichita with her cowboy. Then she might be just as wet, but she wouldn't have to spend a wet miserable night in a strange place alone. She gave a nervous look in the darkness as the wind howled menacingly outside. They couldn't get to that stage depot too soon for her. The stranger was looking at her again, but in a more admiring way than insulting. He'd certainly helped pass the time; she'd buy him a drink when they reached Dodge, if he went that far.

"You going all the way to Dodge, mister?"

"Callan, ma'am. Troy Callan. Yes ma'am, I'm going to Dodge."

"Well, I'm Kitty Russell, and if we ever get to Dodge, I'd be pleased to buy you a drink."

"Miss Kitty, a drink sounds just fine."

A few minutes later the stage slid to a halt. "Wish that Marshal'd kept his ticket," Kitty overheard the driver saying to no one in particular, "all this money makes me nervous, 'specially with an unscheduled overnight stop."

"Don't worry, Clete, I doubt the devil himself is out in this weather."

The door opened, and the shotgun, Fred, helped her down and held her arm as she waded to the door of the station. Troy Callan lifted her trunk down for her and brought it inside.

"Figure you'll be needing your things ma'am." He went back out to help the drivers with the team.

Kitty had stopped here several times with Matt, and had stayed overnight once or twice. She brought the trunk to the far back room where female guests usually were put up for the night. She removed her dripping clothes and dried herself with a towel next to the wash stand. She was more than a little grateful to find her clothes still dry inside her trunk, and found a simple cotton dress to wear for the remainder of the afternoon. She was suddenly very tired: and cold, and more than a little hungry. And already she missed her cowboy. "I hope he's dry in Wichita," she said to the reflection in the mirror.

A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie. She heard Callan's voice from the hallway. "There's some coffee brewed ma'am, and a cold supper. Seems the family that runs this place is away. Their boy's here taking care of things and he ain't too much of a cook, but I'd be pleased if you'd join me for a bite."

Kitty wrapped a shawl around her chilled shoulders and opened the door. "I'm so hungry I don't care if it's burnt or frozen."

Clete and Fred were sitting at the table sipping tin cups of steaming black coffee but both men stood when she entered the kitchen, offering her a seat. Joe, the young man left in charge in his parents' absence offered her a cup and blushed when she accepted it. He was embarrassed that all he had to serve was cold ham and biscuits, but Kitty smiled her thanks and the young man blushed again, stumbling backwards and knocking a pale of water over.

Kitty pretended not to notice and took her seat. The coffee warmed her some, and the ham and biscuits tasted good.

"We're sorry about the delay, Miss Russell," Clete apologized, "but at least you'll be dry here even if you are late."

"I'm glad of that anyway. How long do you think it'll take the roads to dry up?"

"Hard to tell, ma'am, depends on how long this rain keeps up."


End file.
